


This Idiot

by Anglephile



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Anxiety, Apple Pie, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Stan's a big sweetie, Stress Baking, gender neutral reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2020-02-15 14:26:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18671527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anglephile/pseuds/Anglephile
Summary: Stan hears swearing coming from the kitchen, and goes to check on the poor soul getting reamed out by you. He doesn't know what they did, but it sounds bad. He hopes he won't have to break you two up. His face falls when he sees you alone. Were you talking to yourself?





	This Idiot

**Author's Note:**

> First time poster, long time reader. Ahem. 
> 
> Anyway, this was inspired by how I talk to myself. I know it's harsh and mean and the complete opposite to how I treat literally anyone else, but, well...I just wondered how Stan would react to someone he cared about being so hard on themselves.

Stan hears a metallic clattering and a stream of curses fly from the kitchen. A pained growl. Low, harsh words. "You fucking idiot! Don't you ever learn! It's not that fucking hard!" He approaches warily, concerned to see who could possibly deserve that reaming out, and sees you alone in the kitchen. 

"Who ya...Who ya yelling at, kid?" 

Refusing to meet his eyes, you bend down at the waist to grab a knife from the floor. "This IDIOT doesn't know how to handle a knife! Been cooking their whole life, and suddenly can't peel an apple!" 

He looks around slowly. Nope. There was no one else there. 

"...Kid, nobody's here." 

Back turned, you set the knife down with a drop of your shoulders and turn. "This..." you deliberately raise one hand, the one not dripping blood, and point at yourself. "...idiot." After a frigid beat where you stare straight into Stan's eyes, you turn back around to clean up the smears of blood on the counter. 

Stan is stunned for a moment. Jesus, kid. You are one of the nicest people he ever met, great with the kids, patient with his brother, and never once made him feel stupid, or guilty about his past. Heck, here you are waking up early to bake pie for everyone. Or, come to think of it, did you ever go to bed in the first place? Aw, man. He felt like shit. How did he not see this? 

You stalk across the kitchen to toss the bloodied paper towels away, reserving the one clutched savagely against the cut in your hand. Stan clears his throat, and shuffles forward, calmly taking your place in front of the cutting board. He feels your eyes on the back of his neck, but you don't make any move to stop him, so he does his best to copy what is already in the bowl. He keeps waiting for you to interrupt, to insist on doing it yourself, but you don't say a word. If that's the way you talk to yourself, he's grateful. It breaks his heart.

"What do I do next?" he rubs the back of his neck self consciously. "Stancakes are about the best thing I can make."

He ventures a smile, part goofy, part hopeful. You stare at him a moment too long, and his ears go pink. Stan starts to worry he did something wrong; maybe he should have left you alone, he never was good at this stuff. 

"...There's some dough resting in the fridge. You need to roll it out."

Relief floods his face, and he turns to the fridge, missing your hand hastily rub across your eyes. Stan rummages around in the fridge until he finds it wrapped neatly on the bottom shelf. You perch on the edge of a chair at the kitchen table, back stiff, posture unsure.

"Don't, uh, mess with it too much. Your hands can melt the butter." Your voice is shaky, but evens out as you focus on teaching Stan what to do. 

Under your guidance, Stan actually proves to be a good student. He's tentative, but determined to at least try. The pastry is rolled out, neatly placed in the pie pan he didn't know he had, and filled heaping with apples. The top is rolled out same as the first, and placed with gentle apprehension over the filling. You sneak a look over his shoulder to check on his handiwork, and he clears his throat, explanation ready on his lips. Look, he knows it's not great, but...he didn't have a good excuse. Heat flushed his cheeks and his hand rose to knead at the back of his neck. It felt like being in school again having to explain why he didn't do the homework, why he couldn't understand the subject when his brother got it just fine. His eyes fall, the floor suddenly fascinating. You smile quietly, give his shoulder a playful nudge, and turn the oven on. Leaning a hip on the counter you cock your head, and give him an assessing look. 

"Think your ready to learn the secret of beautiful pies?"

He falters. He did okay up to this point, at least he thought so. You corrected him one or two times, but you didn't say he messed it up yet. Nothing like how you berated yourself earlier. Honestly, he wouldn't have minded if you did. If it was you or him, he would be happy to take the heat. But, he really didn't want to disappoint you.

"I-I don't--"

"Please, if my dumb--if I can handle it, I'm sure you can. You already proved how good you are with your hands."

He flashes a quick smile. Catching your self correction.

"You ain't seen nothing yet, toots. Lay it on me."

**Author's Note:**

> *shuffles feet awkwardly*  
> How'd I do?


End file.
